


Space Age Crystals

by Dirtcore Dreams (NakedEye)



Series: Kink My 'Tober 2019 [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Catholic School, Frottage, Hand & Finger Kink, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Roman Catholicism, Secret Relationship, Shotgunning, Sloppy Makeouts, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 18:42:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21040949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NakedEye/pseuds/Dirtcore%20Dreams
Summary: Stiles is just biding his time at a Christian College until his dad stops being mad at him and lets him come home. He didn't expect to catch the eye of Derek Hale, or to become the new subject of his devotion.





	Space Age Crystals

**Author's Note:**

> If you get the reference, 10000 points to you.

Stiles had always thought it was intimate. How could it not be? You didn’t even have to get all philosophical about it-- read some great meaning into the sharing of breath-- just the sheer closeness of the act was enough to warrant goosebumps on his skin, a tightness in his pants.

You could see all the individual flecks of color in a person’s eyes, notice for the first time the length of their lashes. Your noses often bumped, slid against each other. Any little noise they made traveled into your mouth with these tingling little burrs of a vibration-- made you feel their surprise, their pleasure, their assertiveness even more than hear it.

That’s why he didn’t do it often. He couldn’t just set those things aside, pretend he was faded enough not to catalog them forever-- think of them at night when the bed felt lonely. He’d thought it would have to be the same for everyone else.

And yet.

Derek Hale had stalked over to him, all easy swagger, and asked for a hit. He was all strong, but lithe, like a jungle cat. Eyes just as intense. Expression just as dark. It felt predatory even, the way he sought Stiles out, backed him into a corner, loomed over him, but played it coy. His voice was so soft compared to everything else, thinner than you’d expect from a boy like him, and his eyes roamed over Stiles casually, making their weight feel known across every inch.

“C’mon man, I’m not gonna kife your bud. Just shotgun me a little.” He said it like he wanted to waterfall some of Stiles’ drink, like it would be totally unreasonable not to. He said it like it wasn’t a big deal for two guys to just go chest to chest, mouth to mouth, and breath into each other in front of a bunch of strangers.

It was so throwaway it was almost a dare. Press your lips to mine, what are you gay or something? It made Stiles’ pulse race, his fingers twitch. He swore he could vibrate right out of his skin right then and there. He risked Derek’s ire to glance around the room before answering, sweat beading on his temple.

In some sort of miracle, no one was watching. Beer pong was loud, gathered a group. Some folks were already dry humping on the couch. Others were simply too involved in their own drama to be giving a shit about his miniature crisis happening right here, right now.

His head jerked in more of a spasm than a nod, and he brought his joint to his lips, taking a shaky, deep drag as Derek drifted even closer. Their knees were bumping. Stiles could feel the warm, damp skin of their stomachs twitch as they touched. He could smell clean sweat and beard oil on Derek, cutting through the weed.

His eyes fluttered to half mast as he reached for Derek’s head, ran his long fingers through soft, dark hair. Derek rumbled at him-- some sound that came from deep in his chest and was almost like a purr. Their noses bumped. Their scruff tickled. Stiles made a tender, high little whine as their lips touched and his cock pulsed in his jeans.

Derek held him by his fucking hips, like that was even remotely called for, and the guy’s thumbs drifted to rub at his bare skin. Stiles passed the smoke through to him and Derek hummed at the flavor of it, let it hang between their mouths before __licking __into Stiles’ as though he could chase more of it.

It was not a reflexive thing. It was not the jerk of muscle acting before the brain thought better. Derek swept the inside of his mouth like he wanted to __suck __Stiles’ tongue, like they could spend an hour against this wall before coming up for air. His knee slid between Stiles’ thighs, pushed up, and a mewl died in Stiles’ throat when Derek’s eyes flashed at him.

They said, be quiet. They said, don’t blow this. They said, be chill. So Stiles did his best not to hyper ventilate as Derek took the blunt from his fingers, purposefully stroked at his palm, his wrist. He sucked in a hit like he was making fucking love to the thing and then took Stiles by the chin, opened his mouth with a thumb.

Most the smoke didn’t even make it in his mouth as Derek abandoned half the pretense to kiss and kiss and kiss him, pressing into him and attempting to devour him. Stiles bowed beneath him, grinding on his knee, clutching to him desperately. He’d never-- it’d never--.

Stiles hadn’t ever thought about what to call himself and… how he felt, but Derek was making him confront it fast. He pulled away with strings of spit between them. His eyes were big and beautiful and wild. His shirt was all hitched up showing off a fuzzy belly, a slick dickhead that had pushed above his waistband. He looked like an almost feral thing, a dangerous thing.

And he was.

But Stiles had always had a problem with doing what was smart for him. He’d been a thrill seeker from day one, gotten into trouble all his life, and driven his dad crazy. He wasn’t sure if this was some kind of game Derek was playing, he didn’t know if this was a ploy. He was half convinced the jock would take him out back to beat him up before they did anything else.

But that spark made him chew his lips, rolls his hips, slither after Derek out of the party and into the dark. In a certain atmosphere, against the right crowd, the simple idea of boys kissing boys was titillating and terrifying all on its own.

A catholic college was just such one. Stiles managed to get his dad’s threats of being shipped to boot camp down graded to a place like this. Derek’s mom was the fucking Dean. The dude wore a rosary on his wrist and listened to Switchfoot and talked all the time about his summers at Bible camp.

But he was also that kid that you knew __fucked. __He’d gotten a Virgin Mary tattoo on his back and skinny dipped in the fountain on campus during hazing. And now he wanted Stiles, enough to come to him unprompted, to risk them being caught.

They laid together in the cold grass under a mostly full moon and Stiles’ swore the buzz in his head wasn’t just pot. It was the way Derek teethed at his neck, sucked on his earlobe, and whispered feverish things to him. It was being asked if he wanted to be touched before Derek pressed their cocks together, made this wounded expression down at him as they fucked against each other. It was them sucking on each others’ lips long after the cum had gone cold and the manic lust had left them.

It was Derek, pressing their foreheads together and telling him in a husky tone, “You make me feel things… I can’t ignore. You are home and deliverance and rapture.” And if that’s not fucking heady, Stiles doesn’t know what is. He’s just some shit heel punk that got in trouble one too many times. But--.

“I’m just a guy, Derek. But… I can be your guy, if you want.”


End file.
